


Traditions and Trifle

by KissingWinchesters



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Cooking, Kissing, M/M, Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Soft Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:55:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24669496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KissingWinchesters/pseuds/KissingWinchesters
Summary: Aziraphale is making a delicious desert and Crowley helps too.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 45





	Traditions and Trifle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [merakieros](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merakieros/gifts).



> This soft fic is for my lovely friend Andy! It’s our friendiversarry today! 9 years! Can’t wait till we’re eating sushi in soho my dear! Love you lots! xxxxxxxxxx

“Angel?” 

“I’m in the kitchen, Crowley!”

“You don’t say?” Crowley smiles and closes the front door to their cottage, following the sound of clattering and tapping coming from the direction of the kitchen.

He pokes his head around the door.

“Is it safe to come in?”

Aziraphale tuts and waggles a wooden spoon.

“Perfectly safe. Ah, but don’t step on that blob of jelly there, you could slip.”

“Right...” Crowley lifts his knee extra high and avoids stepping on the, well, what actually looks more like a whole jelly rather than just a “blob”. “What are you doing?”

“Surely that’s obvious? I’m making a trifle.”

“A trifle what?” Crowley grins.

“Oh...” Aziraphale rolls his eyes and tuts again, but his eyes twinkle in amusement. “Just pass me that bowl.”

“I thought it was a bathtub.” Crowley lifts the very large bowl and peers in at the contents. “What is this?”

“It’s custard. I’m afraid it’s still rather too runny.” Aziraphale peers into the bowl too. “Hm, I followed the instructions carefully.”

“The recipe?” Crowley puts the bowl down next to the six others on the worktop. There’s different piles of fruit, cream, cake, more of the jelly that was on the floor, and that’s not including the bowl in Aziraphale’s hand. The runny custard.

“Yes, the recipe. It doesn’t look much like the picture. I must have gone wrong somewhere. Oh, bother.”

Aziraphale beats the contents of his bowl again with the wooden spoon, then sighs and puts it down with the others. 

“Why didn’t you just go and eat this trifle thing in one of your fancy restaurants? Or get one from a shop?” Crowley sits down, crossing his legs and taking off his glasses. 

His eyes look very vibrant today, Aziraphale thinks. He should say so.

“Your ey...”

“Or you know, you could...” Crowley gestures with his hand, cutting Aziraphale off mid sentence. The hand gesture, Aziraphale assumes, indicates that he could just miracle himself a trifle and spare himself all this fuss.

“Well, because I wanted to do something traditional.” Aziraphale smooths down his apron, a lovely taupe and tartan, and takes a seat opposite his friend. 

“Oh.” Crowley nods, then shakes his head. “Traditions are human things, aren’t they?”

Aziraphale sighs. He knew it’d been a silly thing to do, but he wants to try to explain. 

“This is our home now, Crowley. Why can’t we have traditions too?”

Crowley’s mouth opens, and a croak like sound comes out, but no words, so Aziraphale continues.

“That’s what humans do. They... well, they do things the same way or at the same time of year, because... it’s nice. It’s something to look forward to, or be excited about, and why can’t we do that too?”

Crowley’s eyebrow arches. 

“Mmm, yeah. Why not?”

Aziraphale perks up.

“You could have started with something easier than trifle, Angel.”

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale chuckles. “But nothing ever worth having comes easy, my dear. 

***

Somehow, Crowley ends up helping Aziraphale make trifle. He even rolls his sleeves up for the task.

“No, I’m not wearing that!” Crowley points at the apron dangling on his friends finger.

“You’ll get messy,” Aziraphale protests. “And why not? It’s my best one.”

“It’s tartan!” Crowley backs up another step in case somehow the thing flies at him and sticks like a magnet.

“Yes, and a lovely print it is too.” Aziraphale shakes his head in that flustered way he does. “Oh, fine.”

Aziraphale waves his hand down over the apron and it changes from tartan to black, a hint of red on the neck and waist ties. 

Crowley smiles and takes the apron, satisfied that it’s now a better colour. Then he remembers he doesn’t want to wear the stupid thing whatever colour it is. He groans, but puts it on anyway. Aziraphale helps him to tie it at the back.

Then they get to work. Crowley gets rid of the ingredients Aziraphale has and they start from scratch.

“Oh, this is fun, isn’t it. Have you ever cooked before, my dear?”

Aziraphale puts two silver beaters into a machine which makes a whirring sound when he switches it on.

“Mmm, no. Not my thing.” Crowley glares at the yellow gloop he’s stirring in a saucepan. “Don’t even think of splitting.”

Aziraphale laughs, his cheeks pink with happiness.

Between them, they don’t do a bad job. The cream and custard are a success, and once the cake and fruit are prepared all that’s left is to construct the desert.

“The cake goes at the bottom,” Aziraphale says, picking up a bottle of sherry.

“Right, uhhh... mmmm...” Crowley bundles the sliced rings of sponge into the special trifle bowl Aziraphale just pulled out of a cupboard.

“Arrange them nicely, dear.” Aziraphale tuts. “It’s a feast for the eyes not just for the tastebuds.”

Crowley pulls a face as Aziraphale uncorks the bottle.

“Pour me a large one,” Crowley says, placing the cake in a neater layer.

“This is for the cake, silly. It gets soaked in alcohol, mm, so delicious.” Aziraphale demonstrates by putting his thumb partially over the opening of the bottle and drizzling the sherry over the cake.

“Waste of a good drink if you ask me,” Crowley grumbles. “What next?”

“The fruit and the jelly next.”

“Agh, nope, it’s still runny,” Crowley says, genuinely disappointed. He wants Aziraphale to have his tradition. 

Crowley searches for the recipe and finds it propped against a jug.

“I think a fridge is involved,” Aziraphale says, close to Crowley’s arm. He leans in and their fingers brush together briefly against the page. “Ah, see there. It sets in the fridge. Hm, we could speed that part up.”

“Huh? Uh... yeah...” Crowley mumbles, looking down at his hand.

“Are you alright, Crowley?” Aziraphale asks, looking concerned.

“Mm?” Crowley pours the jelly mixture on top of the cake and lifts his hand, setting it perfectly.

Aziraphale smiles and he keeps glancing at Crowley with a coy look in his eye. 

The custard is next, then the cream, piles of whipped white clouds. Aziraphale forms little mounds on the top while Crowley adds a shiny red cherry to each one. 

“Happy? You’ve got your tradition.”

“It’s even better now. It’s our tradition.” Aziraphale laughs and bops the wooden spoon on Crowley’s nose, laughing harder at his shocked expression. “I also wanted to tell you earlier, but you interrupted me... Crowley, your eyes look very vibrant today. Beautiful.”

Aziraphale seems to think, brows drawn down in concentration, turns, shakes some colourful sprinkles all over the trifle, and then turns back.

“Also, i’d very much like to kiss you. If you’ll let me.”

Crowley opens his mouth, his jaw wobbling like it’s loose. He lifts a finger and swipes the cream off his nose, smearing it on Aziraphale’s instead. 

They both smile, and Crowley steps close to his companion, the toes of their shoes bumping together. 

“Go on then,” Crowley says, his insides about to explode. Yes! He thinks. Yes! Yes! Yes!

“Yes,” Aziraphale says on a sigh. 

And then he does just that. Lifting himself up on his feet and pressing their mouths together gently. It’s soft, and warm, and lovely, and it’s just for them.

“We must do this again,” Aziraphale says when they stop kissing long enough to talk. “This can be our tradition too.”

Crowley chuckles and wipes the cream from Aziraphale’s nose. “I think you might be on to something, Angel.”


End file.
